


Revenge Consulting and Associates

by Stratisphyre



Category: Leverage
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 08:19:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5659315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stratisphyre/pseuds/Stratisphyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam lives. Olivia dies. Somehow things still manage to come together. Mostly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revenge Consulting and Associates

_LA  
IYS Headquarters_

Three days after Olivia died, Sterling found himself standing on the roof of their head office, holding a bottle of scotch Blackpoole had handed him with a saccharine smile and the offer for a paid week off, “with condolences.” He was debating drinking it—drinking all of it, and seeing where it took him—or pouring it off the roof and then smashing the thing over Blackpoole’s head. The latter idea had significantly too much attraction. The former seemed a better investment in his long term. He and his ex-wife were no longer on speaking terms, and he somehow doubted she’d post bail. Not when he’d turned down her new husband’s money, confident that IYS would pay for the alternative treatment.

He’d just twisted off the top when Nate emerged from the stairwell.

Sterling wasn’t in the mood for Nathan Ford’s brand of patronizing motivational speeches, but unless he decided to throw himself bodily off the roof—or Nathan—he supposed there was no escaping it.

“Sterling,” Nate said in slow greeting, as though approaching a wild beast. Sterling appreciated it.

“Ford,” Sterling replied. “I thought you were in France.”

Nate shifted uncomfortably. “She escaped again.”

Someday, someone was going to call him out on his inability to pin down Sophie Devereaux. Sterling had thought about it once or twice; maybe bring him down a few notches. Now it seemed such a small, insignificant thing he could barely bring himself to care. Let her run. Let them all run. What did it matter?

“You, uh… planning to share that?” Nate asked, holding up a pair of crystal tumblers.

“No.”

“Right.” Nate placed the glasses down and stood next to him. Sterling could practically hear his mental countdown for when he tried to engage again. “You never told me about her.”

“She wasn’t any of your business,” Sterling said. “And she’s certainly not now.”

A week ago, once he’d exhausted every avenue, IYS had sent him a form letter—a goddamn form letter—advising him about their decision not to provide funding for alternative treatment options, Olivia had bullied him into a game. Her hands had been shaking, and her wrists were almost too weak to properly move the pieces, but she’d managed to completely trounce him anyway. She’d called him out on it, accusing him of not having his mind on the game. She’d grinned—the last few wisps of her hair falling into her eyes—and asking him what he found so distracting. He’d managed to capture one knight and little else; the piece was currently burning a hole in his pocket, because selfishly he couldn’t find it in him to bury her with the entirety of her favourite set.

“I tell you everything,” Nate pointed out.

Sterling snorted. “Bully for you.” He finally opened the bottle and took a long draw right from it. It figured, he thought bitterly, that it wasn’t even decent scotch.

“How long was she sick?”

Sterling turned cool eyes on Nate. “I’m not having this conversation with you, Ford.” He took a step backwards, too exhausted to be menacing. “Why don’t you run back inside and tell Ian that you tried your very best to cheer me up, but I wasn’t having it. And when you’re finished with that, tell him to go bend over his desk and fuck himself.”

“Yeah, I’m not going to do that,” Nate told him. “But, Ster—Jim. Jim. It was a bad decision. The worst decision. IYS isn’t the company we signed onto anymore. If you want to leave, I’m right behind you.”

“Leave,” Sterling sniffed. “I’m not going to ‘leave,’ Nate. I’m going to raze this entire place to the ground and then dance in the ashes.”

“I understand,” Nate said, as though he actually could. “If anything happened to Sam—”

“If anything happened to Sam, you’d drown yourself at the bottom of a bottle,” Sterling told him. He pointed at Nate, the bottle swaying dangerously loose in his hand. “Don’t even pretend you wouldn’t.” He looked at the bottle and shook his head, then smashed it against the roof. “I’m better than you, Nate. I always have been. I’m not going to destroy myself over this.” No. He was going to destroy Blackpoole. He was going to destroy IYS. He was going to destroy the entire fucking world if that was what it took.

“Jim,” Nate pleaded. God, even his sincerity was condescending. “Stop. Give yourself time to grieve, and then let’s just go. Start our own business where we can make decisions that will help people.”

“You’ve a very panglossian view of how the world works, Ford,” Sterling said. His voice, curiously, had gone completely flat, like his sudden resolution regarding Blackpoole and everything he held dear had settled him somehow. “Far be it for me to disillusion you, but eventually we’d wake up one morning and Ian would be right there, looking back at us from the mirror.”

“Then do something else. I know Interpol was sniffing around, looking to offer one of us a position. Take it. Get out of here and don’t look back.”

Sterling’s gaze caught on a small fractal of light reflecting off the broken glass in the space between them. Rainbows. Olivia hated rainbows. ‘It means the rain is over,’ she’d told him, ‘and I’ve always loved the rain.’

Three days ago, LA had recorded record heat waves. Nothing but bright, sunny skies.

“You’ve at least said one thing right,” Sterling told him. He kicked the glass with his toe, and the rainbow disappeared. “Give Maggie and Sam my best, will you?”

He left Nate on the rooftop—presumably to lick the scotch off the asphalt tiles—and headed down to Blackpoole’s office.

Twenty minutes later, knuckles burning, security escorted him out with a small box of his personal items. Nate was standing next to the door, looking like a kicked dog, and gave Sterling a small, parting nod of approval.

* * *

_Bosnia and Herzegovina  
Seven Months Later_

Eliot Spencer was a difficult man to find, when he wanted to be. Sterling had gotten caught up in the chase for him, once, when his investigation into a missing antiquity had overlapped with foreign policing services. Sterling had almost cornered him. Had sent six men up to the small flat where they’d cornered him, and followed up five minutes later to find all of them laid out, in various stages of concussed half-consciousness, and Spencer gone.

As such, it didn’t surprise Sterling to have located him in the basement of a small pub, surrounded by a jeering crowd, utterly devastating another man in a bare-knuckled fight.

Money exchanged hands easily—Spencer was a good foot shorter than his opponent, and probably three stone lighter—and Sterling quietly handed over a fistful of bills to a man taking bets in the corner. Less than a minute later, Spencer caught his eye.

With a snarl, he landed a few quick strikes to his opponent’s midsection, and when the other man doubled over he finished with a vicious uppercut. The man fell backwards, toppling into the crowd of spectators.

The crowd was displeased. At least, those stupid enough to have bet against him. Sterling allowed Spencer a few moments to clean up as he collected his winnings, and turned around just in time to watch the retrieval specialist stalk across the bar towards him. There might have been something feline about his movement, had he been a more graceful man. As such, it more brought to mind a wolverine. Or a hyena. Carefully-bridled violence contained in a stocky yet muscly form. Unsurprising, for a man who’d once done the dirty work for Damien Moreau.

“Eliot Spencer,” Sterling said, keeping his voice cool and disaffected, and discreetly reaching for the baton he kept tucked into his pocket, just in case.

“Pretty sure our business is finished,” Spencer said.

“Yes, you made that abundantly clear with the charming message you sent me.” It had been hastily written on hotel-branded paper—Sterling’s hotel’s paper, as a matter of fact—and slipped under his door the evening he’d returned from the attempted arrest. “I was surprised all three words were spelled correctly.”

“You here to get your ass beat?” Spencer demanded.

“Nothing of the sort.” He tilted his head to the bar above them. “Care to share a drink? I’ve just found myself with some extra spending money.”

Spencer spat on the floor. “Should’ve bet more.”

Upstairs, they both ordered some of the local swill and tucked themselves into a small table in the corner. Spencer looked meaner than he had the last time Sterling had seen him, back when he was an independent, before Moreau had sunk his claws into him. Leaner. With a hungrier look in his eyes that had nothing to do with food and everything to do with the violence Sterling had witnessed belowground. He was perfect.

“I have a job proposition,” Sterling told him. He sniffed at the beer and pushed it away.

“You.” Spencer eyed him, looking for an angle. “A job?”

“A very well-paying one.”

Eliot leaned forward. “This about your kid?”

News travelled far in the underbelly. Sterling went ahead and took a sip of his drink despite himself. Hmm. Surprisingly not chewy. “Not your concern.” It was becoming a sound file on loop; eventually he’d say it to himself and believe it.

“I don’t like personal stuff,” Spencer told him.

“Fine,” Sterling said. “Don’t make it personal. Make it about the very, very substantial payout.” He didn’t want to pull the Moreau card unless he had to; running away from a criminal empire wasn’t cheap, and if Spencer was smart he’d put two and two together. Sterling wasn’t holding out much hope of it, but there was always the chance.

Fortunately for him, the light seemed to turn on. “What sort of payout?”

“More than enough to overcome your qualms, I’m sure.” Sterling stood and grabbed a piece of folded paper from his pocket. He slid it across the table. “If you’re interested, meet me at this address on the fifth of next month.” He smiled blandly. “Be a sport and let me know if you decide not to come so I can make alternate arrangements.”

He left Eliot with both beers and the tab.

* * *

_New York, NY  
One Week Later_

Sterling liked the white tie feel of Sotheby’s events. The charm of the upperclass, mingling amongst each other like barracudas. He’d had to rub shoulders enough with friends of his wife during the course of their marriage that he knew how to simper and smile with the best of them. Flatter this person while insulting that one. Chin up. Eyes forward. Make physical contact with people you wanted to fuck, avoid it with people who wanted to fuck you. Step two three four.

The woman he was looking for was the centre of attention, as always, flirting her way through an endless parade of men, all of whom seemed convinced that they could tame her. Unfortunately for them, the only one who seemed possible of the feat was currently cloistered in marital bliss on the other side of the country.

He approached with a smirk, watching her eyes widen and then narrow. She was resplendent in Gaultier; a sizable diamond around her neck that Sterling recognized from a theft he’d personally investigated five years prior. It looked much better hanging between her breasts than it had on the fat finger of its previous owner.

“James Sterling,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Babette Coquillard,” she replied. Her French accent was, as to be expected, superb. Metropolitan, with the barest southern accent implying a childhood spent in Occitania. Deliciously layered and rustic. “Have we met?” _Are you about to arrest me?_

“No, not at all. In fact, I was here to inquire after your services. I understand there’s no one better.”

Babette Coquillard disappeared, and the shrewd look she leveled at him was all Sophie Devereaux. She eventually smiled and breezily excused herself from her flock. He offered his arm, and escorted her across the room, ostensibly to inspect one of the sculptures up for auction.

“How did you know I was here?” she asked quietly, all trace of an accent vanished like dust particles floating out of a sunbeam.

“An auction involving this many impressionists? Giacometti front and centre? I’m surprised I’m the only one here looking for you. I half expected Nate Ford to walk through the door after me.”

“It’s his anniversary,” Devereaux sniffed.

“How unfortunate.” Sterling examined the piece, all odd angles and rough lines. Not the sort of thing he imagined she really enjoyed aesthetically, but something that had become as close to a calling card as she’d permit herself to have. Aimed at attracting a certain IYS investigator, anyway. “I imagine they’re having a lovely time of it.”

“What do you want?” Devereaux asked, patience at an end.

“If you’d like to repay him the discourtesy,” Sterling said, pulling out a piece of paper and passing it her way. “I’ve an offer for you.”

Devereaux unfolded the paper and studied the contents a moment. “So. You have gone rogue. I thought it was speculation.” She folded the paper again and tucked it into her handbag.

“Rogue is such a broad term,” he said. “I’m looking for the best on this one. Naturally you came to mind immediately.”

Devereaux’s mouth twitched up in a self-satisfied smile. “Of course I did.” She eyed him sidelong. “What’s in it for me?”

“A staggering amount of money. And, as a bonus, you’ll make Nate’s life significantly more difficult. Almost makes up for him not being here tonight.”

“And here I thought he was the dangerous one.” She held up her hand to him and he brushed his lips across her knuckles. “I’ll see you in LA.”

“Fabulous.” He glanced at the sculpture. “It’s a fake.”

“I know,” Devereaux replied. “How did you?”

“I just to happen to be on my way to meet with the person currently in possession of the original.”

Devereaux’s brows knitted together. “Surely not—”

* * *

_Orlando, FL  
Two Days Later_

“Parker!” Sterling called. The sound of his voiced bounced off the mascot costumes crowded into the warehouse, half-muffling it until he raised his head and shouted in the direction of the roof.

“Do you not know the meaning of stealth?” Daisy Duck hissed from beside him. Sterling swung around, staring at the costume in horror.

“No,” he said, struggling to compose himself. “Is that supposed to be stealthy?”

There was an unattractive snort from the beak area. “You wouldn’t have known I was in here.”

She had a point. “You got my message. Interested?”

“In the money, yes.” She leaned forward, as though she could intimidate him through looming over him in an oversized duck costume. To be fair, it may have been working. “In working with you? You arrested me!”

“You escaped,” Sterling pointed out.

“Not my point,” Parker snapped. She stabbed at his chest with an outstretched finger. It was rather like being smacked with a pillow. “I don’t like being arrested.”

“I don’t imagine many people do.”

“I especially don’t.”

“I’ll bear it in mind for the future.” She seemed unimpressed, though it may have just been the dead eyes of the mascot. “And I won’t do it again.”

“Hmph.” She crossed her arms. “What’s the job?”

“I want to financially cripple IYS Insurance. Forever.”

Besides Sterling’s one successful arrest, she’d been pursued on at least six different opportunities by the company. Having a few of those investigations disappear had to be tempting; especially since it would make it easier to fence her currently hot inventory. “Let’s say I do it. This doesn’t mean I like you.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to. I’m not terribly likeable.”

“Good. Well then. LA, two weeks, right?”

He frowned in confusion. “Right…?” And then he noticed the piece of paper in her hand. Which she’d somehow managed to retrieve from his inside jacket pocket. While in costume. If anyone ever asked how he’d gotten his short list of prospective employees, he’d mention this moment. “See you there.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Her voice was already on the other side of the warehouse. When he turned his attention, Daisy Duck disappeared into the sea of empty costumes, leaving him surrounded by age-weathered Mickey Mouses.

* * *

_Los Angeles, CA  
Two Weeks Later_

“Hitter. Grifter. Thief,” Sterling muttered, looking at the crew. His crew. Felt good to think that way, like they were a weapon that was his to wield. “So glad you could all join me.”

Their attention was nominally on him and the file folders in his hands, though he could see them eyeing each other up as well. He’d arranged for four interconnected suites at a hotel not far from IYS HQ. The roof had a brilliant view of the building. He could see his old office.

“How many of you are familiar with the concept of reinsurance?”

“We’re not children, Sterling,” Devereaux muttered, even as Parker gave him a blank look. Devereaux turned in her seat and sighed. “Insurance companies don’t typically have enough money on hand to pay out if all their clients claim at once. So they, in turn, have insurance to cover them in case they need funds.” She shifted back around towards Sterling. “You’re not suggesting—”

“IYS’ three largest cases all happen to be in LA this week,” he said. He bounced the manila folders in his hands. “And we’re going to make sure they all put a claim in.”

He handed Spencer the first file. “Bobby Drayton. Currently the top-selling pop artist on every conceivable list in the world.” Spencer flipped it open and squinted at the glossy photo attached to the cover. “A dreamy twenty-something that’s managed to audially seduce every girl between the ages of thirteen and twenty. Which, coincidentally, is the age range he enjoys.” Olivia had his poster on her wall. Or had, until— “Last year, he was accused by a number of underage fans of sexual assault. Needless to say, his defense of calling them all ‘lying sluts’ was widely accepted, and to date he hasn’t been so much as questioned by the authorities.”

“Sounds like someone who needs his face rearranged,” Spencer muttered.

“Funny you should say so,” Sterling said with a smile. “He currently has his mouth insured by IYS for over a billion dollars.”

“His mouth,” Parker repeated, face screwing up confused disgust.

“Lips and teeth,” Sterling nodded. “It’s the newest rage among celebrities. And since he says that without his perfectly pouty lips his career would be sunk, well.”

“How do I get in?” Spencer asked.

“He’ll be here for a concert later this week,” Sterling said. He tossed Spencer an ID badge. “Unfortunately his usual security has been detained at the Canadian border for a shocking number of outstanding warrants. You’ve been hired on to replace them.”

The next file he passed to Devereaux. “Also in town is the private diamond collection of General Ostappo Mustafari, former Dictator for Life in a very small, formerly wealthy African nation that has gone through three civil wars in the past ten years. Mustafari left ahead of the firing squad, and took his collection with him.”

“Why does she get the diamonds?” Parker muttered resentfully.

“They’re insured for upwards of twenty billion,” Sterling continued. “As the collection includes seven out of ten of the world’s largest uncut stones, as well as two cut stones that have been described as ‘priceless.’”

“There’s no way we’re going to be able to fence diamonds that valuable,” Devereaux said. “What are we supposed to do once we have them?”

“We’re not going to steal them,” Sterling replied. “We’re going to destroy them.”

Parker gagged, obvious shock warring with even more obvious outage and screwing up her throat in an attempt to scream at him.

“I wouldn’t be too upset,” Sterling said. “If you look at Mustafari’s record, it couldn’t happen to a nicer man. And every single on in the collection is considered a conflict diamond.”

“So what do I get to do?” Parker asked.

“What you do best,” Sterling said. He passed her the last file.

Parker grinned.

“So we mess these people up,” Spencer said. “IYS can’t pay their claims, they go to their reinsurance company and then what?”

“Well, unfortunately for IYS, they’re currently in arrears on their premiums.” Sterling tilted his head towards the door to the connecting suite. “Hardison?”

* * *

_Los Angeles, CA  
Six Months Ago_

_“So let me get this straight,” Hardison said, “You want me to help you take down your old bosses, and in exchange, you don’t tell anyone about this.”_

_Sterling glanced at the computer screen. “In the grand scheme of things, Hardison, I really don’t give a rat’s ass about you illegally downloading a video game.”_

_“No, you see, Aftereffect 3 is not just a video game, okay? It is the newest in the greatest series of all time, and this copy right here? I had to literally go into the company’s headquarters and go all Indiana Jones to even get into their server rooms. There were rocks. Snakes! I’m pretty sure they got me with a poison dart.” He whipped an actual dart out of his pocket. “This look poisoned to you?”_

_Sterling barely muted a sigh. “The company says you have the only full copy that exists outside of its control.”_

_“Yeah. And I’m gonna play it. And post all the spoilers on the community wall of my former guild for kicking me out.”_

_“I don’t care,” Sterling finally told him, honestly. “What I want is for you to work with me. And in return I tell GP Games that I found and destroyed your copy.”_

_“Can you make me awesome? Like, can I go out in a blaze of glory? Gunfire and explosions everywhere?” He mimed an explosion with his hands._

_Sterling couldn’t quite stop the eyeroll this time. “Whatever you want.”_

_Hardison sat back in his chair. “Cool.”_

* * *

“Sup?” Hardison slid into the room with the swagger completely undercut by the fact he was still cohabitating with his grandmother. “All of IYS’ premiums got funnelled into an offshore account, created and maintained by Ian Blackpoole.”

“IYS is one of the world’s largest insurance companies,” Devereaux pointed out. “How do they not know the premiums haven’t been paid?”

“I’ve been working as a courier for the past seven months,” Hardison said, “And, uh, let’s just say that anything from the reinsurer has gone unanswered.”

“Additionally, the CEO of the reinsurer happens to be at odds with Blackpoole,” Sterling said. “At last year’s Christmas party, he caught Blackpoole and his wife in a compromising situation in the coat closet.”

“Heh,” Hardison grinned ear to ear. “The man himself emailed Blackpoole a couple of months ago asking about the premiums. Let’s just say that he wasn’t a fan of ‘Blackpoole’s’ reply.”

“Which was?” Spencer asked, reluctantly interested.

Hardison’s smile got impossibly bigger. “Asked the man if he had any plans for Christmas.”

“I follow,” Devereaux murmured. “IYS doesn’t have the money on hand to pay the claims. The reinsurer won’t honour their policy because they haven’t paid their premiums in the past six months and the policy lapsed. IYS is out of business. How does this make us money?”

“You said there was lots of money,” Parker agreed.

Sterling smirked. “Leave that to me.”

* * *

Parker didn’t trust anyone.

Not these guys, not Sterling, not Sophie. Not anyone. And that was okay, because between not trusting people and moving fast she’d stayed alive and been super-successful in her field. Of thievery. Because she was a thief. And thieves tended to have either very long careers or very short ones.

Not trusting people had gotten to be a habit.

It didn’t bother her.

So when Sterling suggested she take Spencer with her on the job, and let Hardison natter in her ear while she was working, she tried very hard not to be bothered when Spencer responded to her immediate refusal with a hurt downturn of his mouth.

“I work alone,” she repeated, probably for the tenth time. Three words. Anyone could have understood them.

“Everyone in this room works alone,” Sterling pointed out, and she really hated how reasonable he could sound when being completely _un_ reasonable. “Consider it an exception.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Fine. But I don’t offer dental.” Parker frowned in confusion and Sterling continued, “So when the private security Blackpoole employs shows up and breaks all your teeth, you can expect to pay for the replacements out of your own pocket.”

“If they have dentists in jail,” Sophie piped up. And seriously, whose side was Sophie on?

“Fine,” Parker snapped. She levelled a glare at Spencer. “You’d better be able to keep up.”

Spencer frowned. “Do I look like this is my first rodeo?”

“No horses,” Parker hissed. She stormed out of the room, avoiding everyone’s gaze, and slammed the joint door so hard it bounced back out of its lock. She dropped onto her bed, fuming, and picked up the security schematics of the museum to reread.

Apparently completely tone-deaf, Hardison poked his head in a few minutes later. He dodged the Gideon bible she threw at him—she’d been using it as a paperweight, since Sterling had confiscated everything else in her room that could’ve been used as a weapon—and stepped inside.

“Go away,” she snapped.

“Hey, girl, I just want to talk to you about the security system. You need me to help with the digital stuff, right?”

“No,” Parker half-growled. “I don’t need your help. Or anyone’s. This is just like every other job I’ve done with the exception of having to deal with all of you.”

He closed the door behind him—small mercy, at least no one else could stomp in and bother her—and craned his neck to peek at the schematics.

“That’s a Devlin System,” he whistled. “Pretty impressive. They’re calling it top of the line, though I think whatever Steranko is coming out with next year will probably beat it.”

“Whatever. The Louvre had it, too. It’s not like it’s hard.” Except she’d almost been caught at the Louvre; she’d spent so much time trying to outwit the system the guards had almost caught her. She’d managed to escape, but it had been less one super-fancy chess set that she’d been hired to nab. Funny, she couldn’t remember who her client had been, just the feeling of utter terror she’d felt when she’d barely managed to dodge away from the guards.

“Right,” Hardison said carefully. “I’ve always thought the worst part of the system was the guards.” He rubbed his nose. “And the dogs.”

“I like dogs,” Parker said, though it sounded weak to her ears. Big floppy puppies she liked; savage hellbeasts trained to take down perfectly innocent thieves? Not so much.

“’kay. Well. You change your mind, you let me know.” He shrugged and grabbed the doorknob. “Pretty sure I can at least give you a five minute window. And, you know. Five minutes is five minutes.”

Parker bit the inside of her cheek and glared at the schematics. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why had Sterling gotten them all together in the first place? “A full five minutes?”

He smiled wide. It was… nice. She sort of wanted to stab him a little; just get herself a bit of breathing room from the sudden feeling of niceness. ‘Nice’ was almost as dangerous as trust.

* * *

Annette Etmoore was a consummate professional in her field. The highest-recommended appraiser in California, second-highest on the West Coast and fifth in the country. With the other four conveniently in Europe on all-expense paid trips courtesy of grateful clients who wished to remain anonymous, she was the obvious choice to inspect Mr. Mustafari’s collection, once the allegations of forgery had come up. IYS personally recommended her, according to one of their top investigators.

“What are you doing with them?” Mustafari demanded as she brushed the fine tip of a small cotton swab across the surface. The acidic compound soaking the swab was mostly scentless, though she thought she caught a whiff of something vaguely sulfuric as she went through the process of rubbing down each of the diamonds. It would take a few hours for the compound to begin interacting with the carbon; or, at least, according to Sterling. Which was a relief, considering she wanted to be far out of the reach of Mustafari’s guns before he realized that he had what amounted to a few thousand dollars of industrial-grade rocks.

“I’m checking the surface carbon molecules,” she replied, her Midwestern accent half-lost in her nasally delivery. One by one, she repeated the process with each diamond and tucked the swabs into individual containers. “It’s the best way to verify the diamond’s structure.”

“How long will this take?” he demanded. The museum curator looked equally anxious, though that may have been due to the guns tucked into the waistbands of Mustafari and his retinue.

Annette bounced her shoulder a bit. “I’ll get these back to my lab. Should only be a day or so. I’ll mark it as top priority.” 

“See that you do,” Mustafari huffed.

She straightened and took off her gloves. “That’s all I need for now, Mr. Mustafari. I’ll be in touch.” She nodded briskly and headed out the door.

Unlike Sophie Devereaux, Annette was a blonde, though she’d dabbled in red during her post-grad years before. The wig was a soft honey-yellow and hellaciously itchy. Sophie pulled it off her head as soon as her rental was three blocks away from the exhibit and tossed it into her passenger seat with barely a second glance.

She idled at a red light, considering driving by Nathan’s home in Manhattan Beach and deciding immediately against it. She was not a stalker—she’d left that behind her in London, once upon a very long time—she was a professional with a professional curiosity and an unfortunate spate of feelings where smarmy insurance investigators were involved.

Nathan Ford was a happily married man. Not to mention he’d shot her—shot her!—during one of their encounters.

That she’d shot first was not open for discussion.

Even though he’d deserved it.

(And he had absolutely deserved it).

Instead of giving into her unsavoury impulses, she steered herself back to the hotel where their little team had taken up temporary residence. The minibar had a vaguely respectable chardonnay, and when she could she preferred wine that cost more than eight pounds a bottle.

Sterling was alone, reviewing some of the statements Hardison had forwarded him, the others presumably off casing out their own jobs, now that Parker seemed willing to entertain the idea of actually working with someone instead of pitting herself against them. She took a seat in the armchair nearby and cracked open the tiny wine bottle, debated a glass and then just tipped it up into her mouth.

“I’d heard a rumour you were going straight,” Sterling said after a few moments in which they pretended the other wasn’t there.

“You heard incorrectly.”

Not wholly incorrectly; she’d considered it for a while. Auditioned for a few small Off-Broadway parts. But then she’d get the familiar tingle up her spine that called out for the sort of attention she could really only get during a grift, and knowing that Nathan Ford would be the one to chase her? Oh, yes she’d considered it. But ultimately, even the best actresses had limits to their spending habits, and she could hardly afford to keep herself up to date with the Laboutin catalogue and indulge in her taste for Impressionism when she was performing in a fifty-seat theatre. Her acting talents would have to continue to be redirected until the right part came along.

“Is that the definitive?” Sterling asked. “You’re in until you’re out?”

“Exactly,” she nodded. Or as long as someone kept chasing her, anyway.

She’d crossed paths with Sterling only a few times; mostly when he was working alongside Nathan on bigger IYS cases. Still it was always Nathan coming through the door for her.

She sniffed. Such an unhealthy attraction. She needed to find something else to fixate on.

“What do you do when this is over?” she asked cautiously. “When we’re all rich and you’ve sent us on our merry ways? Going to go back to insurance?”

“I don’t see why not. There are companies out who do good business and don’t have Blackpoole feeding into their inclinations towards twisted morality.” He was lying; good thing he wasn’t actively participating in any of their cons—he was rubbish at it.

Sophie snorted. “Every businessman is a thief, Sterling. I thought you knew that by now.” She smirked. “I think you secretly enjoy being on our side of the law. You always struck me as someone who wanted a turn on the other side of the chessboard.”

Sterling’s face twisted up in cold grief, and she tensed for flight, but the moment passed. “I enjoy winning. It’s not the same.”

“Spoken like someone who’s never run a long con.” Sophie stood and crossed to the small table he’d set up, and dropped into the seat across from him. “There’s nothing quite like the thrill of walking away with someone else’s money in your pocket, knowing it was your brain and skill instead of luck to put it there.”

Sterling glanced up at her. “It sounds like you’re trying to convince me of something, Miss Devereaux. Planning to come to the point anytime soon?”

“No point,” Sophie shrugged. “It’s interesting working for an honest man, for once.”

“I’m not an honest man,” Sterling told her.

“Not anymore, anyway.” She stood. “I like it.”

She could feel Sterling watching her as she retreating to the adjoining room.

* * *

Spencer didn’t like to think of himself as an unnecessarily violent man, and he had a pretty good idea where the lines between necessary and unnecessary violence intersected. Even if he’d been legitimately working security—which, he’d done his time, once or twice—he would’ve put up with the twinky little asshole tossing a half-empty bottle of beer at him and then screaming at his assistant to bring him a drum machine and some Skittles. There were a lot of loud, obnoxious people in the world, and a guy could exhaust himself trying to deal with all of them.

But seeing that little asshole sweet-talking a fifteen year old towards his dressing room? Well. There was the line. And Spencer could sometimes allow himself to take a little extra enjoyment in his work.

* * *

Parker personally would’ve chosen a different collection. There were some seriously awesome pieces at LACMA. But she supposed it made sense… these all being Blackpoole’s personal collection and all. Figured he’d insured his own stuff for upwards of ten billion.

Hardison was still talking, his voice a constant buzz in her ear. She’d started ignoring him after the third minute, though she checked in periodically just in case he was actually coming around to a point.

Nope. Still Battletrekwars. Or something. She wasn’t really following.

True to his word, though, he’d gotten her five whole minutes, and she hadn’t wasted it. The private gallery had about sixteen paintings and three statuettes, and she was averaging a little better than thirty seconds a piece.

One by one, she methodically cut the paintings out of their canvases and rolled them carefully up and set them in individual tubes strapped to her back. The frames were all mostly empty, now. Just a few more to go.

Sterling had been freakishly pleased over the fact that Blackpoole had insured his private collection for such a huge amount, but Parker could’ve told him that every rich person was alike. He didn’t really care about the art, just the money it was worth.

Parker should’ve been rich. She felt pretty much the same way.

“They’re just paper with squiggles on them,” she muttered under her breath. “I could do that.”

Hardison chuckled warmly, and there was that stabby feeling again. “Babe, I bet you could do anything.”

She frowned at the blank wall behind the canvas as she finished slicing the painting away. Was he flirting? She could never tell.

“Guards’ll be back in a sec,” Spencer said at her side. Despite her apprehension, he did move pretty quick. “Can we hurry this up?”

“Meh. You can deal with them,” she told him. “Isn’t that your thing?”

He flexed his already-bruised knuckles. She was pretty sure he’d been picking pieces of teeth out of them when he’d met up with her and Hardison.

“I’d really prefer not to,” he muttered.

“A couple more,” Hardison buzzed. “Just the Cezanne and the Picasso.”

“She’s naked,” Parker said, looking at the painting. It looked like just a big blob surrounded by blue paint and a couple of vines, but she was pretty sure that the extra-blobby bits were supposed to be boobs. “Why are they always naked?”

“You take this one,” Spencer told Hardison.

“Uh-uh. Hell no. Not on your life.”

“Dammit Hardison,” Spencer hissed.

Then the guards showed up. So there was that. Presumably Spencer took care of them as Parker cut away the last painting—she wasn’t really paying attention. She could buy some paint. It couldn’t be that hard. Or maybe crayons. Or felts. The smelly kind. She could paint her nails with them. Red. Like rubies. Oooh, or maybe she could steal some rubies. That sounded like a way better idea.

Finished, she turned and stepped over the only one of the unconscious men who’d managed to get within five feet of her.

“All done!” She grinned. “Let’s go.”

Getting out was far easier than getting in—they weren’t dodging around the guards’ security rotation, for one, even though she had over a dozen pieces of art strapped to her back. Spencer helpfully carried the statues, and made sure she jumped into Hardison’s waiting getaway car before following.

“You should get a van,” Parker suggested as Spencer swung the doors shut behind them. “Much roomier.”

Hardison hummed like he enjoyed the thought, and steered them away from the museum.

The storage facility at which they were set to meeting Sterling was nothing out of the ordinary, save for the fact that the groundskeeper was letting them use it after hours. They were just pulling in as Sterling handed the man a visible wad of cash.

“Security cameras as well,” he said.

“Sure thing, Mr. Ford,” the man replied. He ambled back into the office and Sterling looked at them expectantly.

Hardison killed the engine and hopped out. “All right, Blackpoole has unit 6A rented. Has for the past few years.”

He led them through the maze-like rows of garage-sized lockers until they finally reached the one in question.

“I don’t understand why we’re giving him his stuff back,” Parker huffed. Not after she’d gone to all the trouble of stealingit.

“A few years ago, Blackpoole’s Lexus was totalled when he ran a red light,” Sterling explained. He waved Parker to the locker and she set to work on the padlock. “He expedited his claim and was paid out less than three days later.”

“So?” Parker asked. The lock snapped open.

“So presumably he’ll do the same this time,” Spencer finished, “And if he gets paid out and then they find the property in his possession…” Spencer whistled. “You seriously hate this guy, huh?”

“There aren’t words in the English language to describe it,” Sterling agreed.

The locker had a couple of knick-knacks; a pool table, a car covered in tarp, a safe which she would have examined in-depth if it wasn’t for the warning look Sterling passed her. She sniffed and carefully deposited the tubes.

Spencer dropped his own satchel beside them and they all looked at Sterling expectantly.

“Now what?” Hardison asked.

“Now? We wait for IYS to fall to ruin.” Sterling turned and headed back towards the car. “I’m driving.”

* * *

When Nate met him on the roof this time, he looked somewhat more harried, but he had the bottle of scotch. IYS stock had plummeted following the reinsurance scandal; apparently the CEO had just laughed at Blackpoole when he’d called. Sterling had made his way back up to the roof just as the building was exploding into chaos.

“I hear you’re out of a job,” Sterling said, keeping his gaze aimed away from the hotel. He’d told his people—since when exactly he’d decided they were his, he couldn’t be sure—to scramble, but Nate was far too good at reading into the minutest tells for him to risk anything. They’d all seemed reluctant to leave.

“Not for long. Interpol’s offer is still on the table, and Maggie’s been talking about moving to Europe anyway.” He offered Sterling a glass of scotch. Sterling took it, sniffed it. Much better than the bilge water Blackpoole had shoved in his hands. “Get closer to the action. Sammy’s French isn’t bad.”

“How lovely,” Sterling muttered.

“You had a hand in this,” Nate said, a few long moments of silent sipping later. “IYS is going out of business. Ian’s being brought up on fraud charges—nice of you to return his paintings, by the way.”

“Can’t prove anything,” Sterling said. “I’m not a thief.”

“You’re something,” Nate replied. “I’m not sure you even know what that something is anymore.”

“Do you remember that conversation we had about short sales a few years ago?” Sterling asked. Nate narrowed his eyes and nodded slowly. “I wanted to thank you for the insight you gave me to the more esoteric elements of the process. It really came in handy.”

Short selling the stocks Sterling had ordered just a few days prior had made Sterling’s team all very, very rich. Though why they were all still holed up in the hotel instead of spending their new fortunes was beyond him.

“It’s not too late, you know,” Nate said, all his pretentious self-righteousness coming to the fore. He must’ve really been a favourite in his choirboy days. “To come to Interpol. They could use someone like you.”

“They’ll be getting someone like me. Just significantly less competent.” He glanced at Nate. “Good luck. Give Maggie and Sam my best.”

“You’re an asshole, Sterling,” Nate said. He finished his glass and held out his hand.

After a moment of hesitation, Sterling took it and shook, brusquely. “I am.”

Sterling left him there. Rode down the elevator. Enjoyed the sight of an outraged Ostappo Mustafari screaming for Blackpoole’s head in the lobby as the man himself was led out in handcuffs. Blackpoole met his eyes for a brief moment and frowned in confusion before the police escorted him roughly out of the building.

Sterling had barely made it a block away before he found himself crowded by Parker, Hardison, Spencer and Devereaux.

“That was satisfying,” Devereaux told him.

“Glad to hear it. Piss off.”

“Surely there might be other similar opportunities,” she said.

“Lots of rich assholes,” Parker agreed.

“And you’re like, the trope codifier of the classic Evil Mastermind,” Hardison said. Sterling was pretty sure that was agreement. Whether or not Spencer thought the same was obvious by the way that he was following right along with the rest of them.

“Look, Devereaux—” Sterling snapped.

“Sophie, please. If we’re going to work together, you can call me by my first name.”

Sterling stopped short. “We are not working together. This is not happening again. We went in, did exactly what we were supposed to do, and now it’s over. There’s no part two.”

“Surely you can think of other bastards who deserve to have their lives utterly ruined,” Devereaux said. “I can’t think of a more enjoyable pastime.”

He glared at her. Stepped back. Glared at _them_. They were unmoved, and Olivia’s chess piece was still heavy in his pocket. Even though Blackpoole was going to spend the rest of his life in jail, the hollowness Sterling had wanted to disappear sat sticky against his ribs.

“If we do this. _If_ —” Sterling growled. “You all do what I tell you.”

Dev—Sophie smiled. “I’m sure we can find ways to compromise.”

* * *

“The rich and powerful take what they want. We pay them back for it.

We inflict… revenge.”


End file.
